Hate to Love
by The Feesh
Summary: [AU Movieverse] ...Fanservice. WE NEED MORE BLACKOUT FICS OUT THERE. Reviews welcomed.
1. Chapter 1

Hate to Love

By: Landray Depth Charge (aka Feesh)

He wondered.

The behemoth sat in the infinite darkness, idle in body but not in mind. Recent events in his life had made the gargantuan mech start to wonder about his own motives, his own attractions, and particularly in the case of the latter, his attraction to one mechanoid in particular.

Was it the age-old Earth saying 'safety in numbers' that had brought the pair together? Or was it something entirely different?

Barricade had passed out hours ago, succumbing to stasis from a combination of energy deprivation and general exhaustion. This thought process brought a wry, hidden grin to the hulking mech's sharp facial plating; endurance: it was his gift, and it was his curse. Whether on the battlefield or in personal quarters with someone he could generally outlast almost anyone…though…Barricade did give him a run for his money once the larger Transformer got him going.

The police interceptor in question was out like a light on the dusty, dingy cement floor, framed and illuminated by the square of blue moonlight that had slowly begun to move over his body several cycles ago. The leviathan gazed down at his lover with a sense of longing and affection, though the latter felt strange to him. He'd never before cared about anyone on any level unless he himself had something out of it to gain. But since becoming stranded with Barricade, something had changed. Unsure was the monstrous mech if his feelings were born of a natural desire to stay alive, and thusly, within numbers of his own kind, or whether things would have turned this way regardless of circumstance.

They traveled separately when they did but always joined up at the same place every night. It was considerably less complicated for the smaller, more easily overlooked police cruiser to go out during the day (or night) and just drive, but he, the larger of the two companions, hadn't such a luxury. If and when he chose to leave their abandoned safe haven, he had to remain out of sight entirely. Radar was no problem; the big mech merely masked his energy signature, something that for him was as easy as breathing to the carbon-based beings infesting this wet, dirty dust ball.

Barricade's involvement in this twisted relationship, at first, had been begrudgingly forced at best. The Ford Mustang had a deep-seated loathing for his larger companion that stemmed from events stretching back to when they both were initially appointed and stationed on the great flagship, the _Nemesis_. Back then, the best the larger mech had gotten from the smaller officer had been non-consensual bouts of pleasure that Barricade resisted wildly. The Saleen S281 had been constantly on alert aboard Megatron's warship, on his toes and ready for action at all times. This wasn't just due to one officers attacking him, not so; the musing mech knew that most of the bigger, stronger Decepticons on the ship had found it a hobby to try and kick the smaller mech around. Barricade always bit and shouted back, he never cowered and was just as in-your-face as they were despite being half their size, and that was when the third-of-command had taken notice of him.

His own attacks began, but without the intent to harm. Instead, he pinned the smaller Decepticon down in numerous ways (hands, bodyweight, chains, and other such mannerisms of restraint) and forced him to overload again and again. He made Barricade enjoy what he did and the now police interceptor had loved to hate it.

Now, Barricade wasn't so begrudging.

One large hand reached out, the tips of gargantuan fingers trailing infinitesimal patterns along the edges and gaps that separated plating from innards, armor from sensitive vitals. It was easy to see what made the Ford Mustang so utterly attractive despite his size; it hadn't anything to with anything physical. It was all in mind and personality. Barricade possessed the capacity to be as terrifyingly dominant and headstrong as any other thirty-foot Decepticon he knew. He threw his miniscule weight around and hollered and fought dirty and was underhanded and slag it all, he didn't take flack from anyone. The behemoth shivered, red optics tinted with a touch of amber trailing down his lovers arms, settling on the glinting silver talons that were Barricade's fingers. Those same hands, slightly different in other bodies but still wholly the same, had torn apart Autobots far larger than himself, and the thinking mech had seen this phenomenon countless times.

Those same hands had clawed and scraped and punctured his armor when Barricade had felt less than welcoming to his advances.

Those same deliciously taloned fingers, long and supple, razorsharp, trailing patterns of delight along his shoulders and sides as their bodies ground together with vicious pleasure –

Blackout quivered, rotor blades twitching behind him. His large, wide hand had paused, hovering feet over the police interceptor's hip as the shudder of electrical energy slithered across his sensory network. Shaking just slightly, the Sikorsky MH-53 helicopter closed his monstrous fist, only to open it yet again to let those wide, arch-tipped fingers trail from hip to chest, causing a slight shift in Barricade's position. Blackout leaned his helm back against his rotormount, blazing optics still locked on the silently recharging form of his far smaller, far sleeker companion. Cocaine. Heroine. Adrenaline. Inebriating liquids. Murder. All were objects of addiction among numerous different species, both organic and not. Blackout's addiction was pleasure. His drive to touch Barricade, to make him writhe in mind numbing ecstasy never lessened no matter how often they got off on one another. Even now, subconsciously, Blackout found himself reaching for his lover's pleasure zones without a thought, his wandering hand snaking down between the Saleen's thighs where he knew a cluster of dermosensors lay, a particular set that drove the Ford out of control.

Chrome claws tensed, the tips scraping gouges into the cement. The Sikorsky continued his ministrations, watching as the 550 horsepower muscle car arched his back and reached out, fingers curling into claws in a cat-like stretch before Barricade once again attempted relaxation. Unfortunately, his fellow survivor had other ideas.

Blackout's movement, for such a massive mech, was surprisingly swift and lacking viciousness. It only took one touch to force his lover onto his back, obviously without resistence, so that he may hover on his hands and knees above him. The S281 blinked out of stasis, glaring blearily up at the towering, all-encompassing mass that was Blackout.

"This had better be life-threatening," came the Ford's half-asleep growl.

One two-fingered hand wandered down south again. "Not particularly."

"Then get off," Barricade grunted, feeling those wide digits in the crux of his limbs, digging, searching.. "And leave me be."

"Aww," Blackout pouted maliciously, making a trilling noise of disapproval which slowly turned into a purr. "That's no fun."

"It didn't occur to you that we had plenty of _fun_ three cycles ago?"

Blackout lowered his upper body, holding his weight on one elbow. With his face only feet above Barricades, he hissed just softly, "I can never get enough of you."

But the Saleen only smirked, despite the blooms of pleasure erupting from his companion's touches. "Well, now isn't that just convenient? If I was Bonecrusher or Devastator or Starscream, you'd not be able to get enough of them either." He shifted minutely. "You're addicted to pleasure and I'm your fix. Get off of it and leave me be, Blackout."

The MH-53 Pave Low studied his lover, watching as Barricade's body relaxed with a shudder when his fingers ceased their rubbing. "Negative," the deep bass voice rumbled. "_You_ are my addiction."


	2. Reflections

Reflections

It had hurt.

Blackout intimately remembered everything about the attack on Mission City. He remembered the smoke, the screaming, the crumbling buildings and debris that had littered the streets in the battle's aftermath. He recalled the heat and the sun and the dust and all the shrieking little insects scrambling about, searching for safety.

The Sikorsky MH-53 Pave Low, even before he had come to Earth, had always kept his priorities straight: he was number one, everyone else came secondary and therefore were expendable. With this deeply ingrained thinking in mind, the Decepticon flier had gone into the battle at Mission City determined to win, but he would do so with as little damage to himself as possible. Blackout avoided major fight points, allowing Megatron, Devestator, and Starscream to do the dirty work of dispatching the Autobots while he terrorized the humans a few blocks away. Not that fighting Optimus Prime wouldn't have been thrilling, but considering how quickly the Autobot leader had destroyed Bonecrusher, the Sikorsky found throwing cars around and sawing the slag out of things with his rotors positively – safely -- delightful.

It wasn't like he _wanted_ to be part of this particular mission. Just like he'd never _desired_ to be slapped at the front lines of battle formations on other worlds. Blackout was an officer; he preferred to give orders and watch fights run their course from a point of relative safety, not actively engage in them. So when Starscream, after millennia of abusing the third in command by forcing him to lead massive ground troop advances, ordered the rotor-flier to be part of a search, find, and destroy all who got in the way team bound for an unknown alien planet, Blackout was displeased.

What he found upon landing on the wet, dirty planet was that it was filled and governed by a weak, inferior organic species called 'humans'. They broke easily, their technology was primitive at best, and while there were billions upon billions of them, if the team conducted themselves correctly, they would stand no chance. Barricade and Frenzy had been dispatched three and a half metacycles before Blackout was even ordered to make planet fall – they were nipping at the Allsparks heels, very close to finding the object that would make all the difference in the faction conflict between Autobots and Decepticons.

So Blackout had gone. As per the plan, he dropped down in the small country of Qatar, systems ensuring to scramble the local radar long enough for him to land, get a new alternate mode, and hide. The Sikorsky-built MH-53 Pave Low transport helicopter had been the only vehicle available at the time of his arrival, and only barely satisfied his computers mass requirements for a mechanoid of his size. But, Blackout realized upon scanning and reformatting that the original helicopter had an identification number inscribed along the tail. That would have been a little strange, the newly converted Decepticon rationalized. Two of the precise same Airforce helicopters flying around.

So he killed the other chopper, and disappeared.

He'd sat and waited, concealed, coming out only under the cover of night. Scorponok, his faithful little pet, had kept a patrol routine upon his request during the day, burrowing beneath the sand to detect any unwanted visitors. Blackout had been particularly impressed with his drone's choice of alternate mode: the beast had scanned not only an earth scorpion, but his computers had picked up debris from an old battle field and had managed to tell his reconfiguration systems to take the arachnid shape, but make it look like debris. It was wonderful camouflage for his pet.

While waiting, Blackout learned. Automatically he latched onto the Internet, learning it swiftly and surfing in his free time. It was an obvious advantage to learn about a foreign planet before, well, blowing it up. Knowledge was power, and even the Decepticons knew that. The more he read, the better he felt about his situation on the water-covered mudball. Their weapons were, for the most part, inferior, and when his attack came, all Blackout needed to do was erase their defenses while they slept, download the databases, and then blow the entire base off the face of the planet. That would take five kliks, tops.

Three months later, the order to advance was given, and Blackout was not disappointed. The humans, rather than shooting at him before he got to the base as he expected them to, actually _escorted_ him to the SOCCENT base of their own free will. It had been a pleasant surprise, and the Sikorsky helicopter marked with 4500X on his tail shaft willingly, if not gleefully, followed. The next several moments were lost in history; no one aside from Blackout himself and the surviving human soldiers knew what happened there in detail. It had been easy, but over all the towering Decepticon had failed with the humans got keen to him and cut the hard lines before he could get what he wanted. None survived, but the Pave Low had relayed this news to Starscream after dispatching his pet to track down any survivors and had fled the scene to avoid detection.

More waiting ensued.

Blackout pondered the humans and their weapons systems for several hours before being rejoined by Scorponok – his symbiotic partner was badly damaged and missing half of his tail. This greatly upset the monstrous flier, and after relocating undetected to Australia, he began repairs and maintenance. He worked for days nonstop to get his pet back into functioning levels, and even then, his repair work was mediocre at best. Still, Scorponok felt better. Despite this, Blackout had chosen to leave the arachnid drone behind to recover on his own when the Decepticon second in command had called for them to regroup in Colorado. His reasoning was simple: Scorponok was still in no condition to endure a battle of this magnitude, and Blackout was unwilling to destroy his faithful companion for no reason. It was probably the only show of care for someone other than himself that the Sikorsky had ever displayed.

So he'd gone. Setting his burners at maximum boost, Blackout shot across the Pacific and made it there on near-empty fuel tanks and a little bit late to boot. But he was there, and ready to repeat what he'd done in Qatar.

Things just didn't go that way.

Humans were one thing. Desperate, high-firepowered Autobrats were another. His three teammates were doing a bang-up job of kicking the enemy around, so Blackout had taken it upon himself to bully the local fleshlings. That went all fine and dandy for a little while, but then an opportunity to aid Megatron opened up. Blackout, ever the allegiant, eagerly charged his long-range weaponry and began his stealthy approach from behind while Prime and the Decepticon leader were occupied. Blackout remained unaware of the insects as they strategically congregated around his backside, executing the same devious and sneaky move that he intended to make. They wanted to hit him from behind.

Unfortunately, they made one fatal mistake and he saw one of the targeting devices they used as it crawled along the inside of his left arm. Shifty little bonebags, they were; the Sikorsky had rumbled his displeasure so deep that it rattled the windows on the buildings he was standing beside, and he turned to face the humans to teach them a lesson about sneaking up behind the big boys when they're busy. Something was already coming at him and he shot at it, but it was moving at too high a velocity and Blackout was too shocked to hit it. It was a fleshling on one of their tiny vehicles, and the best he'd been able to do was take a single step back and that's when it all started.

The _agony_.

Blackout felt his chest start burning and he cried out, warbling in pain as both monstrous hands lifted to touch the armor in alarm. It was intact. His chest armor was not blown open and smoldering, it was intact! How was that --? Mechanics popped and exploded within the MH-53 Pave Low's body, and he staggered hopelessly, the world spinning, until finally he went down face-first onto the concrete. Stasis lock took him in their dark, comforting arms down into a world devoid of pain, and that was how he stayed.

Until he hit the water, that is.

The humans take time to do something as involved as gathering up very heavy metal bodies, transporting them, making it out to an unknown point in the ocean and then dumping them. Blackout had remained in stasis lock, effectively playing opossum, for the better part of five days and nights, his body repairing itself feverishly since those systems had, luckily, not gone offline. It was only better for him that none of the Autobots thought to check any of the presumably dead Decepticons to make sure that they were, indeed, dead. One of them wasn't.

But the fastest way to yank a slowly rebooting DNA-based computer out of slumber and into panic-mode was to submerge it into _really_ cold water. Blackout had come back online rapidly sinking, his body filling up with water, and the first thing he thought to do was activate his emergency water bulkheads. Major circuit areas were enclosed and mostly cut off from outside water flow, sealing the inside of his chest and abdomen as well as his elbows and knees. The rest burned, injuries popping and sparking, but for now the immediate threat had been taken care off. He wouldn't _completely_ short out.

But, the helicopter was still sinking. The sun was getting farther and farther away as Blackout plunged deeper into the black nothingness that was already beginning to press down on his armor. Panic; fear; terror; the surviving Decepticon had denied drowning but was still facing the very real possibility of being crushed by the sheer pressure of the oceans waters. Thinking as quickly as his mind would let him as the darkness began to close in with finality, the Sikorsky turned his back to the surface and prayed his rotors still worked. There was nothing but pitch black below him and the unknown of what was down there frightened the monstrous mechanoid more than any void of space ever could. Reaching back, Blackout snatched the main rotor off of its mounting structure and held it by hand, positioning it below him. The blades rotated into position with a groan and…thankfully, began to spin.

Slowly he rose upward, the rotorblades impeded greatly by the water, watching with concern as the ships above him leisurely began to move away. They were leaving. He had been the last to be dumped. Getting a bearing for where he was on the geographical map, Blackout turned away from the ships and hurriedly switched his propelling system into a faster spin, heading for the Philippines some one hundred feet below the surface.

Blackout's consciousness flickered in and out as he went, but his hands and arms kept his route true, and before he knew it, he abruptly stopped.

Crawling, the Sikorsky left his rotormount half submerged in the surf as he heaved himself up onto the pristine white beach. Salt water poured from every crevice and with that feeling came a shudder of relief: he would _live_.

He'd had barely enough time to do a quick, inefficient scan of his area before collapsing, one arm curled under his cheek, back in stasis lock before he could even analyze the data he'd manage to aquire.

Blackout lifted his head, jerked back into current reality from his dreamlike state of half aware musing. He had fallen into a semi-sleep situation, drowsing against a wall in the almost suffocating heat of the warehouse that he and his lover had taken refuge in. Speaking of whom…the Sikorsky blinked his optics and peered at the source of his awakening; Barricade had walked over and sat on his leg, obviously thinking about something.

It occurred to the helicopter then that his companion, for his diminutive size, had absolutely no concept of personal space. Either that, or he disregarded it completely, because Barricade had no compunctions about sitting on or getting as close as he wanted to the thirty-three-and-change-foot Decepticon flier. But Primus forbid if Blackout invaded the smaller mechanoids space at any point in time. Barricade's defensive behavior was interesting to watch and think about; the Saleen Mustang took every opportunity to crowd a larger mech as much as possible as if to assert that despite his small stature he was there and just as dominant as they were, but if someone as big as Blackout returned the favor, he bristled and snarled and threatened to cave their skulls in with a single punch. Years of working on the _Nemesis_ had taught Barricade to be wary of attack around every corner, especially from Decepticons larger than himself.

"Do you mind?"

The Saleen turned his head. "No."

Blackout grunted, but did and said nothing in response. He truly did not care that much, even when the modified Ford Mustang leaned back, using the Sikorsky's stomach as a backrest. The pair had never, ever gotten along aboard the _Nemesis_, but here, being the last two Decepticons on Earth, they tolerated each others idiosyncrasies and were gradually beginning to get used to the entire situation, grim as it was. Shifting only minutely to get comfortable, Blackout lifted one hand, toying with the wheels attached to Barricade's shouldermounts until his companion clearly became annoyed at the action, which took all of approximately two point four seconds.

The Pave Low quirked his crested helm. "Sorry."

"No you're not," Barricade spat, glaring at him vehemently from over his own shoulder.

_That little bastard has an attitude the size of Unicron's head._ "Who says?"

"You're never sorry about anything."

Blackout let it go. The Mustang Saleen's tone was always sharp and caustic, but he'd been getting better at leashing his explosive temper over the past few weeks. Dealing with a Decepticon he'd previously wished death upon as a companion was difficult at first, but was slowly getting easier to swallow. And even Barricade, one of the proudest warriors in the business, couldn't deny the fact that by their standards, Blackout was highly, highly attractive. A mechanoid that radiated that much sheer force and _power_…

The Sikorsky MH-53 shifted again, this time placing his wandering hand across Barricade's stomach. Waiting for the violent reaction he didn't get, Blackout relaxed again and let them both drift back into a state of silence.

But something had been bothering him. "Barricade?"

"_What?_" The police interceptor sounded exasperated.

"Where were you in the battle for the Allspark?"

More silence. Barricade finally lifted a clawed hand and rubbed at his temple out of annoyance.

"What?" Blackout prompted, curious.

"Let's just say…I _really_ hate Bonecrusher."


	3. Escalation

Hate to Love

Chapter 3: Escalation

By: The Feesh (LDC)

It was hot.

The wind swept over a sleek aerodynamic form, white on black cutting through the air as would a warmed knife through butter. Atmospheric differentials were gauged with terrific efficiency, maneuvers timed perfectly down to the millisecond as Barricade tore through highway traffic, lights flashing and sirens wailing to ward drivers out of his path. It was there. It was right there; he could feel it, he could taste it.

All he had to do was get to it.

The throaty snarl of a turbocharged eight-cylinder engine roared beneath the shimmering black hood as Barricade gunned it and swerved around a minivan that didn't get out of the way fast enough. Whoever was driving it didn't have such luck with Bonecrusher, but the police interceptor's concentration was not behind him. With single-minded zeal Barricade kept his focus solely on what was before his guarded prow: a Peterbilt, a Topkick, a Hummer, and two sports cars. Only one of the two interested Barricade. The bright yellow Camaro with black stripes and a growling engine – the silver Pontiac street car made little difference to him. That gold Chevrolet held the bare signal that the Ford was tracking, that little taste of raw power that his very spark reacted to. It was the thing, that sacred thing that gave him life as well as the lives of every other Transformer in existence, past and present. Bumblebee had the Allspark. Barricade wanted it.

Traffic closed in on him but he paid no heed. To his left came a highway onramp; the Saleen S281 Extreme police cruiser, knowing the kind if engine power he possessed, jammed the pedal to the floor and swung out, barreling into the onramp doing a hundred miles per hour or better. Optimus Prime was keen on his position however and slammed on the brakes, blocking Barricade's route around and forcing the muscle car to decelerate rapidly and reintegrate into traffic before the onramp disappeared. Barricade snarled and cursed, veering left and right in repeated attempts to get around the flame-painted eighteen-wheeler but Prime blocked him every time. _To the Void with his heroics!_

Bonecrusher's hateful voice, heavily laden with rage, cut through his systems in their native tongue: "_Disengage and move away. I will dispatch the Autobot general and the weapons specialist._"

Barricade rumbled his engine and backed off, attempts at evading the Peterbilt's blockade having failed. "_Do it_," he warbled in return, changing lanes and easing off of the accelerator to let Bonecrusher past.

The minesweeper eased past him, having a maximum speed of fifty miles per hour. _He'll kill Prime if he can ever _catch_ them_, Barricade groused, drifting back to coast along about four car lengths behind his odious comrade. Bonecrusher began transformation, utilizing the wheels in his feet to propel his ponderous bulk forward at a higher rate. The police interceptor hung back but kept the pace. As soon as Prime was occupied, he'd shoot around, drive circles around the lumbering gunner and medic and go straight for Bumblebee. Jazz could very well pose a huge problem, however; Barricade had read the Autobot second-in-commands file some metacycles ago and reportedly Jazz was the fastest thing on wheels. Though speed could sometimes falter when pitted against muscle, and the Mustang Saleen's own engine power was not to be dismissed. He was banking on the sheer amount of traffic to be the Solstice's downfall, as Barricade was especially good at maneuvering wickedly through car-laden thoroughfares.

Devastator was somewhere behind him, most likely going over more cars than around them, Blackout was en route to the city and Starscream was still presumably at Hoover Dam. Frenzy reported to have found Megatron and the Allspark at the same time – but then the story adjusted when his frenetic partner sent a transmission directly to him that the humans had taken the Allspark. That had brought a drastic change in plans and direction. Starscream remained inbound on Hoover, while Blackout intercepted a human military communication dictating Mission City as their destination. The black and white Decepticon, knowing the roadways best, had changed course and lead his comrades over an improvised route –

_What. Was __**that**_

Fire exploded before the gleaming black prow and Barricade found himself laying on the brakes. Rubber screamed uselessly against concrete as the Mustang interceptor fought to maintain control while locking his brakes at high speeds – all the while staring at the burning halves of what had once been a whole bus. Blindly the pieces skidded and rolled, one careening off to the center divider and forcing the Mustang to swerve into the other lane –

Right into the front fender of a Chevrolet Impala.

The angle was perfect; as though taken straight out of a police film gone badly, the force of the collision sent him sideways in front of the Impala who, in reaction, locked its wheels and swung out of control to avoid him. The older model Toyota Celica was not so lucky and struck Barricade broadside, rubber wailing and metal squealing as he was forced around to face oncoming traffic at a dead stop. The bus pieces had come to a debris-dropping halt, and the police interceptor could only watch as the milliseconds ticked by while that awfully big minivan was barreling straight at him, foot by foot, inch by rubber-rendering inch.

That particular impact sent his ramming bars into his radiator and Barricade offlined immediately to the sound of shattering glass.

* * *

"So that's why you didn't show."

Barricade huffed.

Blackout chuckled and ruffled his rotors, letting them fall back into place in an almost insectoid fashion. "You missed the battle because you got into a fight with a minivan and lost."

"At least I didn't get disassembled and dumped by a bunch of slagging insects – it was Bonecrusher's fault!" Barricade snarled in defensive return. "Stupid brainless tactless minesweeper. He's lucky he was headless before I could get a chance to get at him. I'd use his cranial unit as a hackey-sack."

After a moment to research the term, the MH-53 Pave Low chuckled darkly. "There wasn't much to miss. It was chaos from the beginning – the attack lacked Megatron's usual planning and finesse…which is why we failed." At that, his rotors dropped imperceptibly.

The Saleen Mustang only nodded; leaning against a cement pillar in the old concrete building they had taken refuge in, Barricade looked evenly at his comrade-enemy-lover. The sun turned the dingy windows alight with fire and the air was almost lung-charringly hot, _so it is a good thing we have no lungs_, he mused. Midday in the deserts of Arizona.

"What is this building?" the flier queried suddenly, gazing at the uncommonly high ceilings. "Or rather, what _was_ it?"

"From the looks of the statue over there and the remnants of stained glass, it appears to be a place of religious gathering," Barricade replied, internals trilling as he also glanced around. There were many rows of seats eaten away by termites, cobweb-covered walls and broken windows. "Run down, very old. Scans say over fifty years."

Blackout smirked. "The high ceilings and secluded area appeals to me."

"It would," the smaller Decepticon grunted, crossing his arms. "The heat reminds me of home."

"It reminds me of Qatar. Slagging hot out there."

"Whiner."

"Hush, you."

Silence befell the pair as they took to listening to the deathly sound of the desert. Why a church had been built so many miles from the last city was beyond Blackout, though Barricade had mentioned seeing the remnants of what looked like a small village when driving along the highway. Perhaps, at some time in the earthen past, someone had lived in the area._Lived, and apparently failed to thrive under such conditions_. Barricade had been having trouble keeping his engine from overheating in the triple-digit temperatures and they'd both stopped and taken sanctuary in the shade of the old concrete Minster.

And here they were.

Alone in the desert.

Safe.

Blackout reached over from his sitting position and closed his massive hand over the white panel of Barricade's upper arm, physically dragging the Saleen from his place of choice over to him. The smaller of the two only snarled in halfhearted warning, not offering a fight as he staggered over and regained his balance. Sessions like these had become common, and the more they were intimate with one another, the more willing it became on the Mustang's part. Why bother resisting it? Now that Blackout was no longer attempting to beat him into submission, it wasn't so hard to allow himself to _enjoy it_. Speaking of…

There wasn't much resisting to be done when that gargantuan, three-fingered hand skimmed down his stomach to slide between his legs. Blackout always went there first when he wanted pleasure; every time he attacked Barricade's most sensitive (and most guarded) sensors with the knowledge that it would best entice the interceptor to give in to lust, and now was no different. Chrome claws trailed imperceptible patterns along the slate gray/green armor of Blackout's arms as the hand moved ever so subtly, forcing a hitch in ventilations on the Saleen's part. Already his mind was starting to fog with pleasure; reason skirting around desire, cognitive thought giving way to primal needs.

Barricade didn't rebel as Blackout persuaded him onto his back, mandibles trailing over hypersensitive neck struts as the Sikorsky's suffocating bulk hovered over the far sleeker, far smaller form of the Mustang Saleen. Blackout paused, noting the small air of dissatisfaction about his partner but took no heed of it. The black and white hated being subjugated – or, perhaps what rang more truth and shed more light was the thought that Barricade hated loving it…when it was Blackout.

"Not even so much as a growl," the flier mused from the crook of Barricade's neck.

The other hissed darkly. "Shut up."

"Oh, come now," Blackout crooned softly, digging the crooked tip of his finger deeper between the Ford's thighs and smirking at the delighted squirm of his lover. "You don't have to be that way."

There was something in the tone of the Pave Lowe's voice. A hidden promise, a low grated thrum of lust and carnal yearning that made Barricade's ventilations hiccup in anticipation. There was a certain advantage in being the object of Blackout's attentions, of that there would never be any doubt; the arch of the interceptor's back as his partner trailed deft mandibles over the grill of his chestplates and lower told of such a secret. The sharp, unnecessary inhalation of hot, dusty air as those mouthpieces slid in featherlight touches over the machinery and armor in his abdomen, gliding lower and lower with a careful slowness that drove the Mustang insane. Anticipation; expectation; eagerness of what was to come next forced the smaller Decepticon's intakes to stutter and snag, coughing in the grimy air. But Blackout was a tease, much to Barricade's dismay, and instead of following the line he had been drawing all along he skipped that most sensitive area and nibbled on the inside of one thigh.

The MH-53 smirked at the offended and disappointed trill his lover let off and decided not to goad the interceptor. Without further hesitation, he forced Barricade's thighs apart and lurched forward, pressing his face between, a shiver running through his frame as he attacked those sensors and was properly rewarded. Barricade threw his head back and squealed in mechanical appreciation as his sensory grid spiked at the assault; pleasure swiftly mounted, reducing the muscle car into a twisting, writhing mass of moaning armor and claws that reached out to grasp Blackout's helm.

And out in the desert, so far from anything, no one could hear them scream.


End file.
